Sohrab blinked. Like he was looking at me, really looking at me, for the very first time. "But why did people hide it from Father and you??
"You know, I asked myself that same question the other day. And there's an answer, but not a good one. Let's just say they didn't tell us because your father and I... we weren't supposed to be brothers.?
"Because he was a Hazara??
I willed my eyes to stay on him. "Yes.?
"Did your father,?he began, eyeing his food, "did your father love you and my father equally??
I thought of a long ago day at Ghargha Lake, when Baba had allowed himself to pat Hassan on the back when Hassan's stone had outskipped mine. I pictured Baba in the hospital room, beaming as they removed the bandages from Hassan's lips. "I think he loved us equally but differently.?
"Was he ashamed of my father??
"No,?I said. "I think he was ashamed of himself.?
He picked up his sandwich and nibbled at it silently.

WE LEFT LATE THAT AFTERNOON, tired from the heat, but tired in a pleasant way. All the way back, I felt Sohrab watching me. I had the driver pull over at a store that sold calling cards. I gave him the money and a tip for running in and buying me one.
That night, we were lying on our beds, watching a talk show on TV. Two clerics with pepper gray long beards and white turbans were taking calls from the faithful all over the world. One caller from Finland, a guy named Ayub, asked if his teenaged son could go to hell for wearing his baggy pants so low the seam of his underwear showed.
"I saw a picture of San Francisco once,?Sohrab said.
"Really??
"There was a red bridge and a building with a pointy top.?
"You should see the streets,?I said.
"What about them??He was looking at me now. On the TV screen, the two mullahs were consulting each other.
"They're so steep, when you drive up all you see is the hood of your car and the sky,?I said.
"It sounds scary,?he said. He rolled to his side, facing me, his back to the TV.
"It is the first few times,?I said. "But you get used to it.?
"Does it snow there??
"No, but we get a lot of fog. You know that red bridge you saw??
"Yes.?
"Sometimes the fog is so thick in the morning, all you see is the tip of the two towers poking through.?
There was wonder in his smile. "Oh.?
"Sohrab??
"Yes.?
"Have you given any thought to what I asked you before??
His smiled faded. He rolled to his back. Laced his hands under his head. The mullahs decided that Ayub's son would go to hell after all for wearing his pants the way he did. They claimed it was in the Haddith. "I've thought about it,?Sohrab said.
"And??
"It scares me.?
"I know it's a little scary,?I said, grabbing onto that loose thread of hope. "But you'll learn English so fast and you'll get used to--?
"That's not what I mean. That scares me too, but...
"But what??
He rolled toward me again. Drew his knees up. "What if you get tired of me? What if your wife doesn't like me??
I struggled out of bed and crossed the space between us. I sat beside him. "I won't ever get tired of you, Sohrab,?I said. "Not ever. That's a promise. You're my nephew, remember? And Soraya jan, she's a very kind woman. Trust me, she's going to love you. I promise that too.?I chanced something. Reached down and took his hand. He tightened up a little but let me hold it.
"I don't want to go to another orphanage,?he said.
"I won't ever let that happen. I promise you that.?I cupped his hand in both of mine. "Come Home with me.?
His tears were soaking the pillow. He didn't say anything for a long time. Then his hand squeezed mine back. And he nodded. He nodded.

THE CONNECTION WENT THROUGH on the fourth try. The phone rang three times before she picked it up. "Hello??It was 7:30 in the evening in Islamabad, roughly about the same time in the morning in California. That meant Soraya had been up for an hour, getting ready for school.
"It's me,?I said. I was sitting on my bed, watching Sohrab sleep.
"Amir!?she almost screamed. "Are you okay? Where are you??
"I'm in Pakistan.?
"Why didn't you call earlier? I've been sick with tashweesh! My mother's praying and doing nazr every day.?
"I'm sorry I didn't call. I'm fine now.?I had told her I'd be away a week, two at the most. I'd been gone for nearly a month. I smiled. "And tell Khala Jamila to stop killing sheep.?
"What do you mean ‘fine now? And what's wrong with your voice??
"Don't worry about that for now. I'm fine. Really. Soraya, I have a story to tell you, a story I should have told you a long time ago, but first I need to tell you one thing.?
"What is it??she said, her voice lower now, more cautious.
"I'm not coming Home alone. I'm bringing a little boy with me.?I paused. "I want us to adopt him.?
"What??
I checked my watch. "I have fifty-seven minutes left on this stupid calling card and I have so much to tell you. Sit some where.?I heard the legs of a chair dragged hurriedly across the wooden floor.
"Go ahead,?she said.
Then I did what I hadn't done in fifteen years of marriage: I told my wife everything. Everything. I had pictured this moment so many times, dreaded it, but, as I spoke, I felt something lifting off my chest. I imagined Soraya had experienced something very similar the night of our khastegari, when she'd told me about her past.
By the time I was done with my story, she was weeping.
"What do you think??I said.
"I don't know what to think, Amir. You've told me so much all at once.?
"I realize that.?
I heard her blowing her nose. "But I know this much: You have to bring him Home. I want you to.?
"Are you sure??I said, closing my eyes and smiling.
"Am I sure??she said. "Amir, he's your qaom, your family, so he's my qaom too. Of course I'm sure. You can't leave him to the streets.?There was a short pause. "What's he like??
I looked over at Sohrab sleeping on the bed. "He's sweet, in a solemn kind of way.?
"Who can blame him??she said. "I want to see him, Amir. I really do.?
"Soraya??
"Yeah.?
"Dostet darum.?I love you.
"I love you back,?she said. I could hear the smile in her words. "And be careful.?
"I will. And one more thing. Don't tell your parents who he is. If they need to know, it should come from me.?
"Okay.?
We hung up.

THE LAWN OUTSIDE the American embassy in Islamabad was neatly mowed, dotted with circular clusters of flowers, bordered by razor-straight hedges. The building itself was like a lot of buildings in Islamabad: flat and white. We passed through several road blocks to get there and three different security officials conducted a body search on me after the wires in my jaws set off the metal detectors. When we finally stepped in from the heat, the airconditioning hit my face like a splash of ice water. The secretary in the lobby, a fifty-something, lean-faced blond woman, smiled when I gave her my name. She wore a beige blouse and black slacks--the first woman I'd seen in weeks dressed in something other than a burqa or a shalwar-kameez. She looked me up on the appointment list, tapping the eraser end of her pencil on the desk. She found my name and asked me to take a seat.
"Would you like some lemonade??she asked.
"None for me, thanks,?I said.
"How about your son??
"Excuse me??
"The handsome young gentleman,?she said, smiling at Sohrab.
"Oh. That'd be nice, thank you.?
Sohrab and I sat on the black leather sofa across the reception desk, next to a tall American flag. Sohrab picked up a magazine from the glass-top Coffee table. He flipped the pages, not really looking at the pictures.
"What??Sohrab said.
"Sorry??
"You're smiling.?
"I was thinking about you,?I said.
He gave a nervous smile. Picked up another magazine and flipped through it in under thirty seconds.
"Don't be afraid,?I said, touching his arm. "These people are friendly. Relax.?I could have used my own advice. I kept shifting in my seat, untying and retying my shoelaces. The secretary placed a tall glass of lemonade with ice on the Coffee table. "There you go.?
Sohrab smiled shyly. "Thank you very much,?he said in English. It came out as "Tank you wery match.?It was the only English he knew, he'd told me, that and "Have a nice day.?
She laughed. "You're most welcome.?She walked back to her desk, high heels clicking on the floor.
"Have a nice day,?Sohrab said.

RAYMOND ANDREWS was a short fellow with small hands, nails perfectly trimmed, wedding band on the ring finger. He gave me a curt little shake; it felt like squeezing a sparrow. Those are the hands that hold our fates, I thought as Sohrab and I seated our selves across from his desk. A _Les Misérables_ poster was nailed to the wall behind Andrews next to a topographical map of the U.S. A pot of tomato plants basked in the sun on the windowsill.
"Smoke??he asked, his voice a deep baritone that was at odds with his slight stature.
"No thanks,?I said, not caring at all for the way Andrews's eyes barely gave Sohrab a glance, or the way he didn't look at me when he spoke. He pulled open a desk drawer and lit a cigarette from a half-empty pack. He also produced a bottle of lotion from the same drawer. He looked at his tomato plants as he rubbed lotion into his hands, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Then he closed the drawer, put his elbows on the desktop, and exhaled. "So,?he said, crinkling his gray eyes against the smoke, "tell me your story.?
I felt like Jean Valjean sitting across from Javert. I reminded myself that I was on American soil now, that this guy was on my side, that he got paid for helping people like me. "I want to adopt this boy, take him back to the States with me,?I said.
"Tell me your story,?he repeated, crushing a flake of ash on the neatly arranged desk with his index finger, flicking it into the trash can.
I gave him the version I had worked out in my head since I'd hung up with Soraya. I had gone into Afghanistan to bring back my half brother's son. I had found the boy in squalid conditions, wasting away in an orphanage. I had paid the orphanage director a sum of money and withdrawn the boy. Then I had brought him to Pakistan.
